Ischemia
by Dark-Elk
Summary: It's behind me now...I can feel it...can you? Please R&R!


Ischemia  
  
By: Dark-Elk  
  
I can feel it behind me.  
  
Even as I sit at my station, hard at work, shivers run up my back, and my body continues to pour sweat. It's there. I know it is. I can sense it.  
  
I've been able to do that since I was a child-sense things. Not very accurately, but sometimes, sometimes I can sense things quite well. That's how I know it's behind me.  
  
I can see the reflection of the couch behind me clearly in the monitor of my workstation. It looks empty, but it isn't. Though I can't see its' reflection, I know it is there-I know with all of my heart and soul there is something behind me.  
  
What it is, I don't know. What I'm sensing isn't like anything I've sensed before; it seems distorted and . . .slippery, I suppose. It's like my mind is a hand, lightly rubbing over glass.  
  
Why can't I see it? I know it is there; I know that as surely as I know that I'm alive. The presence it has is so strong I'd need to be dead to miss it. It's strong, yes, but it feels . . .malevolent, unfriendly. I feel unwelcome now in my own room, my inner sanctum, the one place in the chaos known as the universe I should feel safe. But I don't. Not anymore.  
  
I don't know how it got in here, either. The door is open, yes, but how did it get into my apartment? Nothing on this earth could get into my room without going through the front door, and if it had I would have heard the door chime ring, alerting me to this newcomer. Unless, of course, it isn't from this earth. No. Can't think like that.  
  
But . . .what if that was correct? No. I've got to calm down. Maybe I am wrong about this. Maybe there is nothing there. No. That's a lie. In this situation, lying to myself isn't going to help me deal with whatever this thing is. I don't need the false sense of security.  
  
That might be what it wants-for me to fool myself into believing it isn't there. But why? Perhaps it likes its' victims surprised. No. I don't want to think I'm a victim. Nothing has happened, and nothing continues to happen. I'm still typing my reports, slaving away to get done before the sun rises. Sunrise . . .there's a comforting thought. Nothing like this could be happening if the sun was up, but of course it's as dark outside as the void itself. I can't even see the lights of any houses lit anymore- it's late. I curse myself for choosing to live so far out in the country.  
  
That was out of a sense of security, immunity even-the belief that the young can never be affected by the bad things of the world. That belief is dead now for me. The presence behind me hasn't done anything, but it feels like it could. The malevolence isn't the most frightening feeling I'm picking up from whatever it is. No, it's . . .indifference. Like this thing doesn't care what happens. Or like it doesn't care what I do. That seems a bit more apt. This thing doesn't care what I do . . .because it knows it won't matter.  
  
I pause typing for a few moments, and carefully reach for the glass of wine by my side. My hand refuses to steady itself. I breath deeply in and out for a few moments. The shaking stops enough, and I grasp the glass firmly, praying that I don't drop it. That would be bad. I know that somehow-that if I drop this wine on the floor, I will need to clean up the mess . . .and the presence likes me where I am. I can feel that, too. If I drop it, I lose. If I don't clean it up, it will know that I know it's there. But if I do clean it up, it will do something. I grasp the glass . . .very carefully.  
  
I take a sip of the wine, rolling it over my tongue, savoring its bouquet, or at least trying to. The piquant flavor of this vintage is one of my favorites-many nights I come home after a rough day at work and drink a glass of this wine, and the days woes seem to instantly vanish, giving rise to relaxation and contentment. But it isn't working now.  
  
I swallow my small sip, trying to enjoy the feeling of it rolling down my throat and into my stomach, but that too is a hollow pleasure. I sigh, and tilt my arm back, draining the glass completely. The feeling of it in my mouth and sliding down my throat seems distant; the presence is still there, and it seems stronger than ever. I set the glass down, feeling uneasier than before. Rather than calming me down, my nerves seem to have flared, and my hand is shaking worse than ever. A flash of contentment over not dropping the glass is buried in the tumult of worry and fear crashing through my mind.  
  
I turn back to my screen and continue my typing. I still can't see the reflection of whatever it is behind me. My mind begins to wander as I work, and I begin to think of what it is behind me. Hideous forms create themselves unbidden in my mind, magnifying my fears. Each creature I imagine seems worse than the last. I clamp down on m imagination, trying to halt the rampaging fears, but they continue unabated.  
  
My blood freezes in an instant, and the shiver that runs up my spine seems more like a convulsion this time. Did I just hear a sound? I thought I heard a hissing noise, like air or gas under pressure. It sounded like that. I think I did hear it, and that's even worse than my rampant imagination. Now I know there's something there, and that knowledge is even worse than not knowing. Before, my mind had tried to write it off as imagination, overreaction. I can't do that anymore.  
  
I just heard it again-the hissing sound. It seemed to last a bit longer this time, but I'm now completely and totally sure I heard it. I don't know what's making the noise, but I'm sure it's related to it.  
  
I'm getting tired of cowering in fear, but I'm too afraid to do anything. If I knew what it was, I could come up with some sort of plan or something to help me deal with it. I don't have any weapons in this room with me. Wait-I do have things to throw at whatever this is. . .but if it's. . .no, I don't want to think of that. But. . .it could be a ghost. A hostile ghost? Plausible, I suppose. I've never seen a ghost before, and I've never known this apartment to be haunted, but I suppose there's a first time for everything. At least I can figure out whether or not it is a ghost. . . if I throw something at it and it goes through where I'm feeling the presence, I'll know it has to be a ghost.  
  
My hands are shaking a little less now, but only because I'm working hard to keep my nerves under check. I'm more afraid than I was before, and I don't want to think of what will happen when I throw something at it. I reach for my wine glass again, managing to pick it up this time with ease. The weight is comforting in my hand, but my stomach is nauseous. I really don't want to agitate the thing behind me, but whatever it is isn't friendly, and I'm tired of cowering in this chair in fear.  
  
I try to muster up the nerve I'll need, but fail. Nothing I do is going to make me any less nervous about doing this; this I can already tell. Finally, I lightly toss the glass up a few inches and catch it, and then I swivel around in my chair, hurling the wine glass as I turn. I instantly turn back, not ready to see the results, but the reflection in the monitor shows the perfect throw arcing straight towards where I can feel whatever the thing is, colliding with the rear of the couch and exploding.  
  
I instantly draw in a deep shuddery breath. There's no reaction from whatever is on the couch, but I can feel a blast of rage. I replay the throw and the crash of the wineglass in my mind, and look to the monitor again. Something's wrong . . .the shards of glass landed at the foot of the couch rather than on the cushions. If it had crashed into the back of the couch, the shards would be on the cushions. My mind had tricked me . . .but I know what I had seen. The vision of the glass exploding as it struck the cushion refused to leave my mind, even as I tried to supplant it with the belief that the glass had struck whatever was resting there.  
  
I just heard the hiss again, but it's prolonged this time. It reminds me of a snake, almost. I glance out of the corner of my eye towards the couch, affirming the knowledge that there was nothing visible. My mind calms down a bit, but only until I hear another sound, different from the hissing. It sounded like a bunch of small pops and snapping noises . . .almost like someone cracking their knuckles. My heart leaps into my chest again, and I close my eyes out of fear. The blood is pounding in my ears, and I am silently praying to any deity that will listen to me.  
  
I open my eyes cautiously, listening carefully. I can't hear anything anymore, but my blood is like ice running through my veins. My arms are beginning to feel numb, or at least one of them. My mind refuses to focus on that detail, so attuned is it to my surroundings. I can see the sun barely beginning to rise, brightening the sky outside.  
  
Then I hear something, and I turn instinctively. One of the shards of glass laying on the floor crunches into smaller pieces. I sharply draw my breath, preparing to yell for help, but then I feel a stabbing pain, right on the left side of my chest. My vision begins to fade a bit; black irises across my field of vision, slowly collapsing. The sun finally breaks over the horizon, and blades of light stream through my blinds, striking it full on. The last thing I could see was the tall shadow stretching out from in front of me. . .the shadow of it.  
  
-_-_-_-  
  
"Is the mission a success, Colonel?" asked a bored voice from Command.  
  
The dark figure turned and looked at the apartment building behind him, his eyepiece automatically compensating for the reflected sunlight. He smiled, and turned back to the street. "Yeah."  
  
The crackle of static in his ear told him the line was empty. He turned around and looked at the apartment one last time. He rubbed the side of his chest where the glass had struck him; had he not had on his body armor, the glass probably would have cut his skin.  
  
Remembering the man's last words, produced a small chuckle from the figure.  
  
"I know you're not a ghost. . " the man had said.  
  
The irony forced him to chuckle again, and in a low voice that only he could hear, said a single word.  
  
"Boo." 


End file.
